


A Father's Regret

by analect



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: City Elf Origin, Drama, Family, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:18:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/analect/pseuds/analect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his only daughter leaves the alienage as a conscript and a criminal, Cyrion Tabris begins to examine the remnants of his life… and the secrets that have been kept from him for far too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Not mine. Don't own._  
>  **Rated for dark themes, references to rape and violence.**  
>  This story is set in the same version of Thedas as my [Feasting on Dreams](http://archiveofourown.org/series/7976) series, but doesn't directly form part of it. A look at the events following the City Elf Origin, from Cyrion's perspective.

There wasn’t much time to think about it in the first few days. His niece needed him… or, more precisely, the women needed him out of the house. He didn’t begrudge it. Truth be told, after Cyrion had seen the state Shianni was in, he hadn’t wanted to be there. Briefly, he had wondered if that was a failing, but decided that, if it was, it was one he had to accept.

So, he stood outside his own front door, exiled by the impenetrable aura of determined, implacable femininity within, and just waited.

The healer they brought in gave her something to make her sleep, and the women let him look in once, after she was out cold. She was as still as death, the blankets only moving very slightly to the rhythm of her breaths. One eye was badly swollen; the healer said there might be damage to her sight. Time would tell, apparently. Cuts, grazes, and fat, angry bruises marked her face and hands, vivid against the white, papery skin. The ones on her neck were the hardest to look at. Thick and finger-shaped, they crawled like blue-black snakes across her throat.

Cyrion found himself ushered out again soon after. It was all very polite, but firm, and there would have been no defying those steely-eyed, hard-set female faces in any case. He went to the hahren’s house, where there was always an open room and a place before the fire, and sat in quiet contemplation… or, at least, softly expectant silence. The contemplating would come, he supposed, when the numbness wore off.

It had subdued them all. The alienage was silent in the worst way possible: a dense, palpable tension riven with the echoes of disbelief, terror, and outrage. He hadn’t seen the place like this in years. It was the dark, greasy calm that foretold of storms. He should care about that, he knew. He should be worrying, as Valendrian was, that the local boys would do something stupid. Too many of them were already drunk, and there had been brawls and broken windows after… after the guard left. And the other human left. And….

The door opened. For one short, stupid moment, he thought it would be her. He looked up, his eyes already pulling the vision of her from the air. Small, like her mother—Maker rest her soul—but lean and wiry instead of gracefully petite, with that fall of warm brown hair hanging to her shoulders, parted on the side and tucked behind her ears. She’d had the habit of doing that when she was a child… a sure tell of mischief or fibs. Looking at her feet, face screwed up, fingers pushing the tousled tresses back as she swore she didn’t know anything about whatever transgression she was accused of.

 _My girl…._

But it wasn’t her. It wouldn’t be. He _knew_ that, and the knowing pained him, made him see himself as a foolish, weak, broken old man, an empty husk, a wisp of a creature no use to anyone. And he hadn’t been, had he? He’d done nothing. Stood by, let it happen, and the guilt was too raw, too fresh for him to even feel its edges. It consumed him without him needing to acknowledge its existence, just as clouds need no permission to cover the sun.

His eyes ached. It wasn’t her, of course. Cyrion blinked, and the thought of the sight of her vanished, like a trick of the light, or the last echo of a dream, held hopelessly against waking.

Soris closed the door behind him. He was pale and drawn, but pink-scrubbed and wearing clean clothes. He’d found time to wash the blood from himself before the guard came, Cyrion reflected, not relishing the burn of anger that came with the thought. So clean, so silent. Had he thought, even for a moment, of speaking, owning up to the crime?

He tried to banish the resentment, to look at his late cousin’s son with the same affection and comfort he’d always shown the boy. No boundaries of extended family here: Soris and Shianni had always been nephew and niece to him, in name if not technicality. And, ever since Merenir and his wife died, the year the choking fever hit the alienage, Cyrion had felt a deeper responsibility to the children, above and beyond love.

They both had their father’s wild red hair and clear blue eyes. Today, Soris’ were clouded, glazed with a dull, cracked veneer of pain. Of course, he would be feeling the guilt as much, if not more, than the rest.

Merien wouldn’t have let him give himself up, even if he’d tried. Perhaps he had. No matter: Cyrion knew his daughter well enough to imagine the lead she would have taken… though he’d tried hard enough not to think of it. Since their youngling’s days, Soris had followed her like a puppy, loping after her into every scrape and mishap. Now, he held his wounded arm close to his body, the bloody bandage clearly visible beneath the loose sleeve of his shabby, patched shirt, and she… she was out there somewhere, lost to them in such a way that seemed impossible to accept.

Death was one thing. That was something around which adjustments could be made. Grief could be poured out like sour wine and, in time, the vessel might not run dry, but could at least hold its quantity without spilling over. That was a lesson he’d learned long ago, a kind of loss he had managed to accept, and to take deep within himself, as flesh knits around an old wound, scarred but sound. This wasn’t the same. This was a new, terrible pain, and it was without breadth or height or length. He could not measure it, could not quantify it, or know how to begin living with it.

“Uncle.”

Soris bowed his head and waited for Cyrion to acknowledge him before taking one of the other chairs by the fire. The hahren’s parlour was not crowded tonight. Nera, Valendrian’s sister, was kneading bread at the back of the house. They could hear her beating the dough out, humming quietly to herself. A couple of other women had passed in and out, silent and stone-faced.

“How—” Cyrion cleared his throat, finding his voice unexpectedly thick with cobwebs. “How is she?”

Soris looked up, settling himself on the hard wooden chair, but did not meet his uncle’s eye. “Oh. The, uh, the healer’s been with her again. They say that time will… help.”

“Mm.” Cyrion nodded slowly, watching the fire flicker. Help, but not heal, perhaps.

He looked at his nephew, aware there was something more. Soris was frowning at the floor, his open, boyish face sunken in somehow, haunted and disconsolate. A greasy tallow candle guttered on the table, its fatty, rancid smell tainting the air.

“She….” He stopped, glanced around the low, dim room, and dropped his gaze back to the worn floorboards, both his voice and his shoulders hunched against the uncomfortable words. “They tell me it’s likely she won’t bear children. Even if he was… clean, he did so much d— oh, Maker, I can’t….”

He broke off, shaking his head, lips pressed tightly together. Cyrion winced. It was not altogether unexpected news, but he had not anticipated the bitterness with which Soris tried to counter his own grief.

“Not that it matters, I guess. She’ll never marry now.”

Cyrion drew a slow, deep breath. Such anger beneath those words. Righteous anger, but not reserved solely for the crime. There were traditions among their people—things that were so deeply ingrained they went beyond even the need for written rules. No point writing down something bred into the bone.

Shianni was damaged goods, her honour torn to pieces. No match worth having would take her after this, whatever the dowry.

“She says she doesn’t want anyone to tell,” Soris said sullenly. “But they all know. Already. Everybody knows. They’re all talking, they’re all—”

“And it’s just talk,” Cyrion said, knowing it wouldn’t soothe him.

“They didn’t see it! What he _did_ … that bastard would have killed her, Uncle!”

The fire cracked, sparks burning themselves out on the hearthstone.

“I don’t doubt it.”

Cyrion closed his eyes, trying not to relive the moment the humans had returned. He’d watched his daughter struck down in front of him, and not moved to help her. None of them had.

He tried telling himself there had been nothing they could do. Nothing anyone could do. The humans had brought guards with them; resistance would have meant a bloodbath. That was sane, rational thinking… those were sane, rational thoughts. They’d been there in his head as he stood and watched the humans cart the girls away—a cold, clear voice, reiterating calm and sensible things, while every nerve in his useless body thrummed with impatience, ready to rip the cobbles up from the streets for weapons.

Would it have made a difference? Perhaps, if they’d rioted then, the arl’s son would have been frightened away. His guards might have whisked him off, and whatever followed might not have been worse than what had happened. Deaths would have been unavoidable, but then there had been deaths anyway, hadn’t there? Yes. There it was. Rational, once again. Not that it helped.

Cyrion pinched the bridge of his nose. He was tired. Too tired for these tortures of what-ifs and maybes. Yet, in the darkness inside his head, there was only the vivid swirl of imagination, conjuring pictures he had no wish to see.

“How is Valora?” he asked, trying to anchor himself back to the present, back to this moment, and those who survived into it.

Soris nodded. “She seems well enough. Stronger than we gave her credit for, anyway. She’s still at your place, helping with… things. Keeping busy, I guess.”

“And they… they didn’t—?”

“No.” The word was final, abrupt. “Only Shianni. I… I keep thinking, if we’d been quicker, or if—”

Cyrion shook his head. “Don’t. You can’t change what is done, Soris, and wishing for it brings nothing but sorrow.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Uncle, but my sister—”

“Is not the only casualty,” he reprimanded sharply, then sighed at the sight of the boy’s wounded, angry look.

It was true, though. However personal it felt, what had happened today affected them all, and the community would be struggling out from under this one for some time. The healer had been forced to give old Tormey a heavy sleeping draught after he heard about Nola. The man had lost his wife in the spring, and now his only daughter…. The worm of guilt within Cyrion—the worm that twisted and squirmed and whispered _better you than me_ —spun for him all too believable visions of that agony. Its jagged edges were there, waiting for him, he guessed, beyond the numb, icy reaches that still engulfed him. After all, it was unlikely he would ever see her again.

Outside, it began to rain. Cyrion glanced at the shuttered window, listening to the heavy fall beat against the cobbles. How far would they be from the city now? Would they be on foot, or could the human have arranged some kind of transport? Coaches ran to the south on reasonably regular routes. Merien had never been on one before. She’d never been outside the city at all, come to that… and barely outside the alienage.

Perhaps he had been too over-protective. Was that so wrong? He’d wanted to shield her, to lift from her the burdens of injustice and fear that lay beyond the gates. And yes, maybe even to keep her the way she had once been: his little girl, with the lop-sided smile and the scraped knees, who would hold out her arms to him when he came home and beam at him with such magnificent, unconditional affection.

The wind caught the rain and began to drive it at the shutters. A few drips started to seep through the cracks. Why should it be that even the sweetest memories grew so painful?

There had been dark nights then, wet and cold, and he had walked through them uncaring, back to the lamp-lit haven where his wife and child dwelled. Adaia would have cooked, and the house would be warm and clean. He would sink into his chair by the fire, she would brush the hair from his brow and kiss his forehead, tell the child to play quietly… and he would doze until dinner was ready, aware of his daughter at his feet. Sometimes, he’d haul her onto his lap, and she’d read to him in her halting, stuttering way, from whatever book of tales or legends her mother had found for her.

“Uncle?”

“Hm?” He blinked, sniffed… raised a hand to his eyes as if the smoke from the fire troubled him.

Soris shifted awkwardly on his chair. “The permits. What happens with those? I mean, Valora and I… we’re still unwed. Not that anyone’s ready to deal with anything just yet, but she can’t be expected to—”

“No, I see what you mean.”

Cyrion nodded thoughtfully. It was a practical point. Practicality was good. It was real, and tangible. The girl had to be settled; she hadn’t come all this way for a half-life, somewhere between child and woman. She needed the security and the respectability that her marriage would provide. He winced a little at the direction of his thoughts, and the path that they opened up in his mind.

Of course, on the matter of weddings, the Chantry and the law were two slightly separate entities. Legally, there was no mandate for elven marriages… no legislation beyond that which banned them from owning freeholds, inheriting property, or gaining sundry other rights and privileges which humans took for granted. The Chantry, too, had no standing obligation to officiate services, though the priests encouraged applications. They would, naturally, as each permit cost several silvers to obtain.

Cyrion hauled himself up in the chair, aware he had been slouching like an old man. He cleared his throat, propped his elbows on the smooth-worn wooden armrests, and looked wearily at Soris.

“She will board with me for now. It’s better for Shianni there, too. Quieter, yes?”

Soris nodded. Since their parents’ deaths, they’d shared a room in one of the tenements by the east gate, like many of the young people. It was rowdy, with shift workers in and out at all hours… and, Cyrion was sure, certain less salubrious trade going on behind some of the doors.

“Thank you, Uncle.”

He shook his head, keenly conscious that it was the least he could do. “The permit gives you thirty days. In the morning, I will go to Mother Boann. If she’s willing to come back and officiate, we’ll get you two dealt with as soon as your sister’s well enough to be witness. I’m afraid it won’t be as… generous a celebration as we’d planned.”

“No,” Soris agreed, staring at the floor, sandy brows drawn in a dark scowl. “It’s hard to see any joy in it.”

Cyrion’s mouth crumpled into a thin line of regret. One so young should not be so bitter, yet he could hardly argue. He sighed, and it was a harsh, dry sound, like the rustling of dead leaves.

“She’s a good woman, Soris.”

“I know. I… I want to make her happy, Uncle. It’s just… difficult to believe this will ever be behind us.” Soris looked up, and his face held a desolate, aching hope, tempered with that sour resentment. “It won’t, will it? Not ever. Not truly.”

Cyrion groped for the right words. There must be some, he supposed. Some hint of encouragement, some grain of comfort he could give, but he was damned if he could find them. Nothing felt right anymore, and there was no certainty in the expectation of a future.

Oh, the future never _was_ certain, of course… but the fact that there would be one—that the sun would keep on rising, and the days keep flowing by—had always been enough for him.

He’d imagined such things. Dared to hope for such tender, ordinary dreams.

“Give it time,” Cyrion said, knowing how lame it sounded. “It’s all you can do, my boy.”

Soris’ lip wrinkled; the nearest he’d ever come to outright disrespect, Cyrion thought. He didn’t say anything, though. Just gave a tired, jaded nod, and stared at the floor again.

The rain was growing harder, teeming down outside. Somewhere, a cat yowled, and there was the faint sound of rats scuffling beneath the window. Cyrion peered at the dampened shutters.

“I suppose I should be getting back,” he said. “If they’ll let me in. You’ll… take care, won’t you?”

“Mm.” Soris grunted. “Yes, Uncle.”

“All right. I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

Cyrion winced. There was no conviction in his voice; he sounded as pale and worn out as he looked. His brave, terrified boy.

“All right, then. I’ll… well, I’ll see you in the morning.”

And there he went, repeating himself like an old fool. Slowly, Cyrion raised himself out of the chair. Maker, but he ached tonight. He felt his age, and a score of years more, but it wasn’t over yet.

He paused at the door, fingers reaching for the handle. Veins stood out on the back of his hand, dark blue on mottled skin, like rivers rising beneath the peaks of his knuckles.

“You know I….” He looked over his shoulder at Soris, wishing he had the right words—that the right words for this had been invented, somewhere, by someone more eloquent than he. “I’m grateful. If you hadn’t done what you did….”

Soris scoffed and continued to stare at the floor. “Good night, Uncle.”

Cyrion nodded sadly, and let himself out into the street.

Darkness had stolen over the alienage, though candlelight spilled from the chinks in shutters and doors, and the pale wedge of a moon occasionally peered from behind the racing clouds. Rain slicked the cobbles, and the cold drops stung his ears. A stray dog was picking through filth in the gutter, its ragged coat standing up in wet clumps. It looked up as he passed but, as he showed no interest in challenging it for its meal, it gave a half-hearted grumble and went back to its business.

Still so quiet. That took getting used to. Would it be different in the morning? Cyrion wondered. Perhaps it would. Perhaps he would wake, and find the flower sellers and the other gate traders walking down towards the market, and children playing in the street, and women gossiping on the corner… just like every morning. They survived like that. Whatever happened, they survived. Just as a tree might bend with the wind, they bent, but they did not break. They endured.

As if confirming his thoughts, speaking to him like a sign from heaven, a light breeze rustled the leaves of the vhenadahl, and Cyrion smiled bitterly to himself.

There would never be another normal morning. He would not wake to a kettle warming over a fire she had built, nor wash his face in water she had fetched. He would not listen to her hum tunelessly as she scrubbed the floor, or see her look up at him, her hair messy, her freckled face drawn into a tired grin… that smile she reserved only for those she was closest to. It was broad, candid, and displayed the chipped front tooth that embarrassed her so much that, most of the time, she tried to smile with her mouth closed. She’d succeed, too, unless something caught her out, made her laugh and then, oh, Maker, she was so like her mother. That big, wide grin, the throaty chuckle that spilled out into warm, precious laughter.

Cyrion brushed a hand across his face, wiping away the rain. Stupid. It would all have changed anyway.

He’d expected to spend his evening in the hahren’s parlour, though not for the reasons he had done. It was the proper thing to give the young couple privacy, and he’d had no wish to be there for… that. There would have been a gaggle of drunken revellers outside the door, anyway, singing dirty songs and calling out encouragement. There always was. His wedding night had been no different, and a small smile leapt to his lips, unbidden, as he remembered it.

He had been so choked with nerves that day. Ready to run off in search of the Dalish, and queasy with the cheap ale his cousins kept pouring down him. Adaia had been calm; so terribly, frighteningly calm. They’d met once before the ceremony, and he hadn’t known what to say to her. She’d been a beautiful, exotic creature; small and delicate, like a bird, with eyes so dark they were almost black, deep chestnut hair, and skin the colour of pale honey. He knew virtually nothing about her. The matchmaker had been a cousin of his mother’s: a thin-faced old man who chuckled a lot and just nodded and leered when Cyrion asked questions. No one would tell him much. Good family, a personable, attractive girl, they said; spent time in service with a rich merchant in the Marches. Of course, people did things a little differently across the sea, but she had a sensible head on her shoulders, would make a fine wife….

He’d found out the rest later, and finally realised why his father had seemed so cold towards her.

Well, it didn’t matter. She _had_ been a fine wife. She’d been a fine wife, a fine woman, a fine mother… everything he could have asked for, whatever her faults. And had he begrudged her those? No. Her wildness, her smart mouth, her stubborn, proud nature… just parts of who she was, and the broken prism through which he sometimes saw her in their daughter.

Cyrion drew in an aching, tight breath as he neared his door. No warm, clean haven of light this evening. No chair by the fire, no wife at the stove, no child to greet him with faltering steps and shining eyes.

Would it have been any different if Adaia were still here? Maybe if the wedding hadn’t been so rushed. If Valendrian hadn’t been so keen that it be done the moment the party arrived from Highever… but that was still maybes and what-ifs, and they did no one any good.

He let himself in, careful to keep his tread light, and almost unaware he was holding his breath.

The house had emptied rather; it was quiet inside, the fire banked down to a dull glow, and the decorations stripped from the windows. The stern, iron-jawed women seemed to have gone, and Valora was sitting in one of the wooden chairs, her head on her hand, dozing. He didn’t mean to wake her, but she jolted at the sound of the door, her face pinched into a brief but cuttingly fearful look. She exhaled as she saw it was him, and smiled apologetically.

“Oh… I’m sorry. I—”

Cyrion raised a hand, shushing her. “It’s all right, child. You should be resting. Is… is she asleep?”

Valora nodded, rising stiffly from the chair. She looked exhausted.

“Yes, elder. There’s some tea, if you want it.”

“Oh, sit down. I’m not so old I can’t do anything.” He waved the girl back into the chair and gave her a playful smile. “And for the Maker’s sake, call me Uncle.”

Her big, watery, doe-eyes crinkled as she smiled damply back at him.

“Th-thank you,” she breathed, voice soft and choked with tired, broken gratitude. “I mean, thank you… Uncle.”

Cyrion took the cloth from beside the fire, and drew the kettle off the heat. It was still hot enough to freshen the pot, and he poured two cups, glad of the opportunity to fuss over her a little.

They were familiar actions, and if he didn’t look at the girl, he could almost pretend she was— well, _almost_.

There wasn’t much to talk about. Oh, there was plenty he could think of to say, endless questions he might have tried to ask her, but now was not the time. The silence between them was fragile… it had hard, brittle planes, and soft, swelling shadows, and it hid things inside it that no one was ready to confront.

“I’ll sleep out here,” he said, when they were finished. “You take the other pallet. There are blankets, and you can— You know. If she needs you.”

Valora nodded gratefully. “Yes… Uncle.”

Cyrion smiled, and took the empty stoneware cup from her small, delicate hands.

Behind the wooden screen, Shianni was still sleeping, propped up in a nest of pillows and blankets. It was a deep, unnatural, induced sleep, and looking at her unsettled him. He wanted to reach out, brush the hair from her forehead, but he didn’t dare touch her. Not even for the proof that she was still warm, still breathing.

He took one of the two spare blankets, left Valora to settle herself on what he supposed was now his daughter’s old bed, and retreated back to the fire. He’d passed less comfortable nights and, in any case, he was hardly likely to see much rest. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, and stared at the patchily whitewashed wall, bare except for a single wooden shelf that had held a few books and other odds and ends.

Cyrion listened to the sounds of shoes being dropped quietly to the floor, and the pallet creaking under a new, unfamiliar frame. After a few minutes, Valora blew the candle out, and there was nothing in the room but the dim play of the firelight, and the shadows, and the steady beat of the rain.

He didn’t want his thoughts to turn to Merien, but he didn’t fight it. Inevitable, he supposed. Missing her, fearing for her… they were things that would be there on every breath he took now, like the sharp, metallic taste of frost in the first weeks of winter, when the body is not yet used to the chill, and yearns for the warmth of summer.

He hoped she had everything she needed. His girl… and what had he been able to give her? Every gift, every plan he’d made for her future had been wrapped up in the wedding, in the months and years of planning for this day—this day that should have been so special, so perfect.

As the gentle glow of embers coloured the shadows that danced on the walls, and the rain thrummed outside, Cyrion found himself too weary to feel anything. The numbness had kept the anger at bay, he supposed, along with everything else. It would come, in time. He was afraid to sleep, frightened of confronting it all when he awoke, as if daylight would make it real.

He could hear the family who had the upper floor, the Suranas, moving about. It was late, but he doubted anyone was resting well tonight. The guard had not been back… not yet, but tomorrow was another day. Another life, he thought glumly.

It would have been anyway. It would all have changed—but it shouldn’t have been like this. He closed his eyes, silent words that were not quite prayers offering themselves up to whatever lay beyond this world.

 _Keep her safe. Let no harm come to her. Let her be brave, and wise enough to know when to save her own skin. Let her… let her_ live _. Please, just let her live._

He couldn’t help it. Too easy to see her face again, as she stood there outside the door, saying her last farewell. His little girl, with the swelling bloom of bruises on her face, and so much fear and apology in her eyes. After everything she’d done—and, Maker knew, it was stupid and reckless—and she’d wanted his blessing.

He’d tried to give it. He’d done his best. How did you do that? How did you pretend you could watch your child hand over her life, and not have your heart ripped from your body in a single breath?

She should never have done it. _They_ should never have….

After it happened, after Vaughan and his guards left, there had been stunned, terrified silence. There was no precedent for such a thing. Not like that, not in front of the entire alienage, and in front of the human priest. The scale of it, the audacity… so much more than just the usual level of abuse, and on such a day as today. It was a spark to a powder keg, and the flames started leaping barely minutes after the bastards had gone.

In the still, quiet darkness, Cyrion examined his actions. Was he ashamed? The hahren had appealed for calm, tried to keep control of the crowd. Mother Boann had not helped, and the only thing worse than her loud, outraged indignation was her insane suggestion that they send for the guard. Someone had yelled something foul at her, offended by her very human idiocy—that she could be so stupid as to think the law existed to help _them_ , especially when it was the nobility who were doing the breaking of it—and she’d ended up being spirited away in an increasingly ugly crush.

He’d said nothing. _Done_ nothing. Just stood, watched, listened… and what damn good was that?

Nelaros was the one who stirred things up, and Cyrion’s throat tightened at the memory. He’d been truly furious, refused either to sit back and ‘hope for the best’, the way poor old Tormey said, or to simply get angry and shake his fist.

And then there had been the other human. The Grey Warden. Dark and mysterious, with bright armour and obvious weapons, and a voice that was clear and authoritative, and seemed to make everything sound so rational.

Cyrion had spent a great deal of his life around humans. Years of service, and plenty of exposure to their kind, good and bad, had saved him from the jaundiced prejudice his people could be prone towards—yet he’d hated the man on sight. Suspicion jockeyed with fear, but there hadn’t been time to think about it. He’d not even known of the Warden’s presence until it was too late. Oh, and _then_ hadn’t he been gracious? Hadn’t he been dignity personified? Stepping into the fray as Nelaros rallied for action, offering assistance, advice… handing over his own weapons, and giving those boys everything they needed to get themselves killed.

Yes. Honourable indeed. Striding into their midst, and tearing them down.

Cyrion opened his eyes and stared at the far wall, with its dancing patina of shadows. And what, precisely, would he rather have had happen? Was there a way he would have preferred it to end? The girls spirited away and never heard from again, perhaps, except in the whispers of suspicion and rumour, until the story became a thing muttered of behind hands, not mentioned in the daylight hours. He’d lived through that before. The last purge had been years ago, true… more his parents’ time than his own, but the spectre of it lingered. People disappearing, and the very walls whispering calumnies, setting brother at brother and father at son. The price of bread went up as fast as wages went down, because all of a sudden no one wanted elves for service, in case they started snapping at their masters like rabid dogs. Violence increased; hunger and desperation saw to it. Then, with the spikes in crime and disorder, granite-eyed men from the garrison marched in, flanking some obsequious civil servant with a stack of papers and wax seals, and they’d been told ‘measures’ were going to be taken.

It started small. There were opportunities offered; passage to other alienages, dangled in front of them like gifts from the government. Relocation arrangements, they said. The possibility for a set number of families—first come, first served—to start a new life in South Reach, or Highever, or West Hill, or some such far-off dream. He remembered it happening. Remembered the smiling faces and the people waving farewell, and then never hearing from any of them again.

He’d learned, later. There was more to be afraid of, back then, than running into the Hard Line boys in the marketplace. In a place where the only thing they had in abundance was nothing, too many fought over the control of the swill pail, and the alienage had been left torn between handfuls of warring criminal factions, and caught against the corruption of human governance.

It was better after the occupation ended, though change did not come overnight. As a matter of fact, it took such a long damn time coming, most of his people had already decided there was little difference between a Fereldan king and an Orlesian emperor and—in real, practical terms—they were right. For a long while, anyway.

Still, all that… a good twenty years ago, Cyrion thought, gazing sadly at the far wall. The shadow-stains were beating slower now, as the fire died down. He could hear Valora’s breathing lengthening out and, eventually, sleep claimed her.

Valendrian had been in his mid-thirties then, and he’d taken the helm after the old hahren died, proving his worth by the way he handled the guard. Things had already begun to change. New laws, new ways of doing things… elves were allowed to take casual labour, and work in some forms of trade for the first time in almost a century. Cyrion remembered how like freedom it had felt—how fresh, how exciting—and, of course, it had all coincided with his marriage. He’d been young enough, and foolish enough, to really feel as if he and his bride were on the threshold of a wonderful new world.

Well. This all just went to show how life panned out, didn’t it? Like a mountain range, the years were little more than endless upward slogs and terrifying, unstoppable descents, punctuated by very brief moments of respite, where you could stand of the roof of the world, and see for a thousand miles.

Cyrion sighed softly. Sleep was definitely evading him tonight, and all that left him with was the jagged, pitted fields of regret and angry, humiliated pain. He didn’t want to think about it. Too many memories, and too much pressing in on him from the now; the things that were not yet memories, and would hurt no less until they were.

He closed his eyes again, a pointless nod towards the attempt at rest. The darkness was full of faces, full of cold, blinding aches. He wished he could dream—have blissful, islanded dreams where they were all there, all home again, and where there were smiles, and warmth, and they were safe. His girls. He’d happily lose himself in dreams like that, let everything fade away and give himself to the changeless, timeless fantasy, allowing the real world—in all its betrayals, and inadequacies, and treacheries—to recede, until it stopped mattering completely.

A little while later, once the fire had grown cold, and the thin trails of tears had dried on Cyrion’s cheeks, Shianni woke screaming. It took the best part of an hour to calm her down.


	2. Subtle Voices

The paper had stayed resolutely blank for hours. Cyrion kept staring at it, as if the thoughts might crystallise themselves and bleed out of his brow, dropping to the clear, unblemished surface in splashes of ink. It didn’t happen. He didn’t even know where to start.

It had been a long day. No one had managed much sleep the night before. Once whatever the healer had given her started to wear off, Shianni coasted up through the tangled layers of consciousness, and there had seemed to be no line between the nightmares and the terrors she saw when she was awake. She’d screamed so much people had come to the door, nervous faces and hunched figures in nightshirts and smallclothes, candles guarded carefully against the rain. He’d done his best to make them believe she was all right, but Valora couldn’t cope with her alone.

The steel-eyed, stern-jawed women had come back. They made possets and simple draughts, and dealt with… her injuries. She’d thrashed around so much she started bleeding again and when she realised it—rising from the pallet to find the blanket wet and her shift red—the crying and hollering only got worse.

She quieted, eventually. Cyrion had sat by the fire, aware he was useless and probably shouldn’t even be there. He hadn’t wanted to see it, anyway. It was… indecent. Bile marred the back of his tongue, and he’d struggled to turn a kindly smile on Valora when she came to join him. She was white and damp-eyed, and he held her hand and promised that it would pass. Shianni would be all right, given time. Yes. All things, in time, passed.

He kept saying it, and after a while it felt as if the girl believed him. He wished _he_ did. Already, people were talking—and not just the things Soris was worried about, either. There could be a place for an unmarried girl who forewent a husband in order to care for her family… for a while, at least. She could claw back a reputation like that, though it would never be an untarnished one, and never enough to fix her with the match she deserved. But, if Shianni could not regain herself, there was little charity in the alienage for a crazed, fatherless lunatic. They had more than their share of beggars already, and Cyrion couldn’t bear to think of her joining those ranks.

Still, it was early days. She would recover. She would… be fine, as he kept saying. It didn’t quell the talk, of course, and _that_ would only get worse. He saw it in the way people had looked at him last night, as he tried to hold onto the authority of his own doorstep. They would point and whisper when he passed by on the street; he would have it all to look forward to, all over again.

‘Ah, that’s Cyrion Tabris,’ they would say. ‘There he goes, the man whose wife got herself killed in the marketplace—d’you remember? Going on ten years ago now—all because she couldn’t keep her fool mouth shut, and thought she was clever enough to take on the guard. He should have learned to keep a closer watch on his womenfolk by now.’

Cyrion shook his head and tried to concentrate on the blank paper in front of him, but the imagined voices yapped on, invading his thoughts and spinning ugly, vicious narratives from the gossip he’d already overheard… and the gossip he knew would come.

‘Do you know, nearly twenty years he worked for old Bann Rodolf; bought himself a bunch of airs and graces he had no right to, didn’t he? Still a servant, at the end of the day. He paid fat coin for his daughter’s wedding, though, and look what it got him. Brought a groom in from Highever, laid on enough ale to wash the streets with, and made such a fuss it brought the nobles down here a-wenching.’

Because it had, hadn’t it? If it had been a less lavish ceremony, if he’d made less of an occasion of the thing, then maybe— No. No, that was foolish. What had happened had happened, and there was no sense tearing himself to pieces about it. Whatever they said. Whatever they _would_ say.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, the cheap pen drooping in his fingers. All he’d wanted to do was give her something good, something to start her off right in life. Was that so bad?

‘Of course, the daughter was always a tomboy. Little hellion, as a brat. The mother’s influence, I imagine…. You’d think any father would step in and take a firmer hand. Small wonder she ended up like that. They say she murdered the arl’s son; slit him wide open like a hog. Should have hanged for it. _Would_ have hanged for it, but some shiny officer showed up and slipped her the draft. The father probably dropped a great big bribe somewhere. Still, it’s a beggar’s choice, isn’t it? Executed for treason, or dragged off by the hair to be an army whore….’

Cyrion pushed back abruptly from the table, a tight breath stinging in his chest. Oh, yes… he could hear what they’d say before they even knew what the words would be themselves. He’d lived here all his life, seen the same faces and heard the same patterns of gossip and spiteful, malicious whispers turn around and around on the wheels of life: all grist to the rumour mill.

They were his fears too, of course, and they were worse than all the shame and humiliation he would bear on her behalf. Too easy to imagine what kind of life awaited his girl, out there. Travelling alone, except for the Grey Warden, which was no comfort in itself. Then Ostagar, and the army camp… throngs of human soldiers, starved of female company. It was just as well Merien wasn’t a pretty girl, he supposed, though it would probably matter little. She was elven, and would be fair game. The thoughts made him feel sick, but he couldn’t stop them pounding on and on in his head, however hard he tried.

Again, then, the paper. This damned letter. Cyrion took up the pen once more and blinked hard, dragging the blank sheet back into focus. He didn’t want to commit the words in ink until he knew they were right. Paper was too expensive to permit mistakes, and expense—with Merien no longer here to earn, Shianni still in need of the healer’s visits, and Valora to keep in bed and board until she and Soris were properly settled—had suddenly become a pressing issue once again.

He sighed.

 _Your son was a brave and valiant ma—_ no. That wasn’t right. It was true, but it didn’t help. _We are grateful for all that Nelaros did to…._

Perhaps not. Cyrion winced. There was, he supposed, little he could do but tell the truth. An awful thing had happened, and their son had been brave enough to try to do what he believed was right and… and perhaps that was, under the circumstances, the best any parent could hear. It didn’t make it easier to write.

There was no chance of getting the bodies back, naturally. He supposed that would be obvious to the family, and so there was no point in lying and pretending he could give their son a honourable funeral.

He took up the pen once more.

 _My dear friends,_

A slightly pretentious greeting; even after month upon month of letters, he didn’t really know the family all that well. Truth be told, they’d been getting fed up with him writing. Few fathers fussed so much when they could delegate to the matchmaker, but he’d wanted it all to be perfect. His stupid vanity, he told himself, just as much as the desire to see his daughter settled right.

 _Your son arrived safe and well in Denerim. Nelaros spoke most highly of you and hahren Sarethia, and asked that I express his gratitude for all you had done, and pass to you and his brothers his love and affection._

 _I dearly wish I could tell you to expect a letter from him soon, or describe to you the happy day we had hoped to have. Unfortunately, it is my duty to bear bitter news._

He blew a long breath through tight lips, and it helped to dry the ink on the page. The words lost their shiny wetness, and turned dark and irrefutable. How did he say it? How to describe what… what no parent should have to read?

Movement at the far end of the room distracted Cyrion from his task. He looked to the source of the sound, and his face split into a broad, tender smile.

“U-Uncle?”

Shianni was up. Holding onto the wooden screen for support, bent and doddery like an old woman, and still pale as ash, but up nonetheless. He pushed away from the table, the chair barking on the worn wooden floor.

“My girl…! Here, let me help you….”

He went to her at once, offered an arm for her to lean on—and felt the slight tremble in her flesh at the touch of it. The bruises were fully out now, more or less: bloody flowers blooming across her face, neck, shoulders, chest and arms. One eye was still swollen and crusty, the lashes matted and the skin raw.

“Do you want to come and sit by the fire?”

She nodded, and he helped her, slow and easy, watching every wince and baulk along the way.

“Your brother’s coming by as soon as he finishes work,” Cyrion said, swinging the kettle over the flames on its squeaky metal hook and busying his hands with the comfortable, familiar ballet of cups and teapot. “And Valora should be back any minute. She went to see Silenis about work as a seamstress. She has a place for a capable girl, apparently, so….”

Ironic, he supposed. Valora popped out for half an hour, and missed everything. He hoped Shianni wouldn’t need him to… _do_ anything while she was gone. He glanced at her, and saw she was casting her good eye over his unfinished letter.

“You’re writing to Nelaros’ parents,” she observed.

“Yes. Someone has to tell them… I supposed it ought to be me.”

Cyrion lowered himself into the other wooden chair, the corner of the table between them. Shianni’s long, slim, hard fingers traced the edge of the paper delicately, but she didn’t seem to really be looking at the words.

“He seemed so nice. It’s not fair.”

She spoke without much emphasis, as if talking of a lost glove.

“No,” Cyrion said carefully. “No, it is not.”

He watched her, and she tilted her head to the side thoughtfully. Her unruly red hair was bound back in two short pigtails that fell behind her ears, and a few strands were already breaking free, wisps that softly touched her forehead, and framed her beaten face.

“They would have been happy, wouldn’t they?” she asked, but her voice was dreamy and ethereal, and he doubted the question was really directed at him.

“I hoped so,” he said, in any case.

“Mm.” The beginnings of a smile touched the corners of Shianni’s mouth, but they soon faded away, like the mist of breath on glass. “And now Meri’s gone, too. Hm. I still don’t quite believe it. Did you see how fierce she looked, Uncle? With that human’s sword in her hand?”

Cyrion winced. He would rather not have contemplated it. Shianni sighed, and then gave something that sounded horribly like a small chuckle.

“You should have seen her. I never knew she could fight like that. It was… wild. Like something out of a storybook.”

An uncomfortable silence fell, broken only by the kettle starting to come to heat. He was grateful for the opportunity to go and deal with it, and to turn his attention from the child before he really started to think she’d gone mad.

It was enough to drive a woman insane, wasn’t it? The things Soris said they’d done… the things she’d seen…. But Shianni was strong. They were all strong. You had to be, otherwise you broke, and _they_ did not break. They bowed, but never snapped. She would come back from it… she would come back to him.

She had to.

He poured hot tea, put one cup in front of her, and warmed his hands against the other. This damned cold, wet weather made his joints ache even worse than usual. If he didn’t keep them moving, they seized up altogether.

“Mother Boann’s coming back in a few days,” he said, because giving Shianni the tail of a future to hold onto seemed like a good idea. “For Soris and Valora. Will you be witness, do you think?”

A frown crinkled the pale, freckled brow, and she looked confused.

“I… I suppose so,” she murmured, but without enthusiasm.

He smiled, forcing the gesture from unwilling lips. “Good.”

Shianni stared at the cup for a while and then extended her hand and, grasping it as if it was an unfamiliar thing, raised it gingerly to her mouth. Cyrion watched, wincing in sympathy when the touch of hot tea to her cut lip made her flinch.

She drank, though, and that was surely a start.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

He went to the hahren’s house again in the morning, and was fortunate to catch Valendrian at home. He seemed drawn and weary, his face bearing the same look of closed-in, proud circumspection as always, but his lips pressed into a terse, grim line, set tighter than before. Cyrion nodded to him in greeting.

“Elder.”

Valendrian’s wide mouth quirked slightly at the corners. The humour was not lost on Cyrion; there was less than twelve years between them. Still, the hahren inclined his head.

“My friend. How is your niece?”

“Better,” Cyrion said charily. “She’s up, eating, drinking. But—”

“Indeed.”

There was neither the need nor desire to discuss further details. Valendrian, like most of the alienage, had been out there under the vhenadahl when they came back. Soris and Merien, blood-spattered and bruised, with Shianni’s ragged, bleeding form slung between them, and the other two women tottering on behind. Everyone had seen. Everyone _knew_. Her shame, her disgrace… and the danger that spilled out in its black, poisonous wake, and now threatened to taint them all.

He cleared his throat, a small frown pinching his brow. The hahren’s boots still had a thin rime of mud on them, though they’d obviously been wiped clean. Cyrion took it to mean he’d been out already this morning, and wondered how hard Valendrian was working to keep the guard at bay.

It stood to reason, of course. While he was grateful that it wouldn’t be _her_ who paid the price—such a small word for the complex, confused, nerve-shattering swell of relief that had engulfed him when he learned of the conscription—he was aware there would be repercussions. That much was unavoidable, as were the whispers that had already begun. He’d seen it on the faces of the few people he met on his way down here; as if it was his fault she wasn’t here to bear the punishment. As if, somehow, he’d planned it this way.

Funny, Cyrion thought, how a community so renowned for its tight-knit ties could turn so easily on its own, and unite in spite and anger.

No matter. It would pass, perhaps, and the important thing was that _she_ was safe—or as safe as she was going to be, in that new life of hers. He didn’t want to think about it, wanted to pretend that he could ignore it, almost as if it had never happened.

He realised he was still staring at the hahren’s boots. Valendrian coughed gently.

“You intend to proceed with the… wedding, I hear?”

Cyrion smiled tightly. The last time they’d discussed this, a little more than a week ago, it had all been so different. The rush and the chaos of the thing being pushed forward, with all the scrabbling to get the arrangements made in time, preparing in a maelstrom of excitement and anticipation. The word then had been ‘festivities’—hardly appropriate now.

“Yes.” He nodded. “I think they should be settled as soon as possible. Mother Boann is prepared to officiate, so—”

Valendrian lofted an eyebrow. “Is that wise?”

His tone was measured and calm, but well-polished steel lurked behind it.

Cyrion held his resolve, and met the other man’s unblinking stare. “I believe so, elder. I… believe that it should be as close it can to what they were expecting. What everyone was expecting.”

A proper wedding, he might have said, once. For the briefest moment, the ugly snake of a remembered voice curled through his mind.

 _If you want to dress up your pets and play tea parties, that’s your business…._

Silence had fallen around those words like the pieces of a broken mirror, sharp and jagged, and ready to cut. He’d known then it wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —end well. And he hadn’t moved a damn muscle.

“Really?” Only the word indicated surprise; nothing in Valendrian’s voice or face suggested the faintest hint of disbelief. He sniffed eloquently. “Well, I see your point. The strongest tree grows from the sturdiest roots, and all that. When do you have in mind?”

“Er, two days’ time, I hope.” Cyrion blinked, pushing the cobwebs of memory away. “The priest intends to come early. I thought, do it in the morning. Quick and simple… while the sun’s bright.”

The hahren nodded slowly, his gaze slipping to the knotted wood of the shutters, framing a window whose waxed paper panes were spotted with grease and dead flies.

“All right. And… the boy’s family? In Highever. You’ve written, I understand?”

“Yes.”

Another nod. Valendrian’s mouth became an even tighter line, a thin, dark scar running across his ravaged face. Age wore them hard, Cyrion supposed. The years, and the privations, were unkind, but it was poverty that quickened them, and nothing more. The pangs of the day’s dampness still pained his joints, and he clenched his hands as they hung loosely at his sides, the sharp throb in his fingers at least proof he could bend them.

“I know Sarethia a little,” the hahren confessed. “Second cousin on my mother’s side. I sent a note of condolence. She will, I am sure, be a comfort to the family and—as you know—they have other children.”

It seemed an unkind thing to say, as if speaking merely of spare socks or enough plates to host a big family meal. The reassurance of extra supplies. Cyrion knew that was not how it was meant, aware that Valendrian had, once, also lost an only child.

He inclined his head, wishing he could be artful enough to convey gratitude without clumsiness.

“True.”

The hahren let a long, low breath slide from his lips. “If… if it should help you to know,” he began, looking guardedly at Cyrion from beneath thick, grizzled brows, “I do not think there will be any official… retaliation, let us say… until the king’s forces return from Ostagar.”

He _had_ been meeting with the guard, then. One brief, shifting glance at the elder’s face told Cyrion of the bribes and barters that must have been involved, and tongues of shame bound him to silence.

“The palace district is… distinctly vacant,” Valendrian said carefully. “There is little going on in the way of governance, and not likely to be—as far as we, and this matter, are concerned—until Arl Urien returns. That does not, of course, go for the rest of the city. I am advising extreme caution to those who leave the gates. You have heard what happened at the docks yesterday?”

“The docks?” Cyrion frowned, lamentably aware of how little he’d listened to any news from outside the alienage in the past few days.

“There is a, uh, strong current of distrust emerging,” Valendrian said delicately, fixing him with a very dark look.

Ah. _That_. Yes, Cyrion realised. He’d felt it when he slipped out to see Mother Boann. The market district was a greasy cauldron of tension, roiling and bubbling, with anger breaking the surface in hot, explosive vents. Someone had thrown a stone at him. It had glanced off his arm and, as he hadn’t seen where it came from, he’d written it off as a cruel child or a rambling drunk.

“An elven man was beaten senseless by a group of human dockworkers when he arrived for his shift. Ladon Therulis. He and his wife rent a house in the area… though I believe they will return to the alienage soon. I have been asked to arrange matters for them.”

Dizziness tugged at Cyrion’s brow. He knew the family name, if not the man himself.

“That’s… terrible,” he murmured.

The hahren shrugged. “It is to be expected. Rumours spread faster than poxes, try as the guard might to keep things quiet. At the moment, people are willing to believe a group of elves broke into the arl’s estate, intent on robbery and murder. They say Urien’s… son,” he supplemented, as if unwilling to say the name, or credit that monstrous bastard with humanity, even in death, “died courageously in the defence of his father’s property, and of justice itself.”

The words were dry as sand, and grated a little as they scraped between Valendrian’s lips. Cyrion winced, and disgust coiled in his belly, but he was too weary to try to be shocked.

“I see.”

“Things will become… difficult,” Valendrian said, with elegant understatement.

Cyrion’s skin prickled. There was no change in the hahren’s voice or face, but the strength of the accusation was as vivid, as painful, as an open-palmed slap.

He nodded, unable to meet Valendrian’s eye. It was all there; not stated overtly, not directed at him, but it didn’t need to be. It was his responsibility, his burden… his shame. Ultimately, this whole damn mess was his fault, and in his daughter’s absence, it was him that the people would blame.

“Still.” The hahren brought his hands together, his hard, hollow palms clapping dully. “We have a wedding to arrange. Two days’ time, then? And Shianni will be well enough to stand witness?”

“I think so.”

“Excellent. It will do her good,” Valendrian said, looking levelly at Cyrion. “And, as for you, my friend… you will be strong. Yes?”

“Yes, elder,” Cyrion echoed meekly.

Valendrian smiled, though it didn’t seem to quite reach his eyes, and shook him by the hand. It was a warm gesture, filled with a traditional symbolism of respect. His left hand grasped Cyrion’s arm, their right hands clasped tightly together, wrist to wrist. A gesture of respect, and belonging… one he’d barely ever thought about before, used to seeing it, using it, on the completion of every business deal, the conclusion of family meetings or discussion between men. Yet, even now, it wasn’t quite enough to cling to.

Cyrion let himself out and walked home, his shoulders bowed with the weight they carried. When he got in, he found Valora sitting behind a pile of darning almost higher than her head, and the house smelled strongly of soap.

“Uncle!” She looked up brightly at him, her smile far less tentative than he’d seen it before. “I have some work! Silenis brought this round just after you left. I’m to do all these and return them by tomorrow morning. Oh, and watch where you tread. The floor’s a little slippy. Silenis brought us some wash to do, too.”

Nonplussed, Cyrion blinked into the dimness of the long, low room. Sure enough, the caulked wooden tub they used for bathing stood in front of the fire, and swathe after swathe of wet clothes were hung around the place. The muggy, damp warmth made the air taste stale and faintly metallic, and a brief look at the array of shirts, smallclothes and skirts confirmed one thing: they were all human-sized.

His throat tightened around an absurd twinge of outraged anger. Stupid, he told himself. He should be proud of the girl. Pleased she’d had enough sense and initiative to do this… even if it meant turning his home into an impromptu laundry.

Shianni was kneeling by the tub, taking the washboard to a twist of wet linen that he guessed must be some shem’s undershirt. Her movements were awkward and slow, but she seemed determined. She glanced up, smiling lop-sidedly at him.

“A copper a bundle, Uncle. Two on the darning, and much more for fancy work. When my eye’s better, I’ll be able to do some of that, too.”

Cyrion nodded wearily. “That’s… wonderful, girls.”

He dredged up a smile in return, and picked his way between the low-hanging, dripping garments, in search of a chair that didn’t have anything spread out over it to dry.


	3. Little Shadows

The day of the wedding was bright, with a sharp chill in the air, but calm. There had been no undue drama, no uprisings in the street. Valendrian had been working hard, Cyrion supposed. There was talk—a very great deal of talk—but it only seemed to happen in the dark. With the morning it dissipated like fog, leaving the cobbles bare; no groups of women gossiping on the corners, no old men sitting by their doors, offering their opinions on the shortcomings of the young.

Few gathered beneath the vhenadahl. He wasn’t sure if it was a calculated insult, or just the fact that, this time, he hadn’t laid on half as much ale.

Valora and Soris wore ordinary clothes. It stung Cyrion badly to realise how much of her trousseau she’d given to Merien—a good dress, almost-new boots, and a pouch of hard-scrimped silvers—and how little it had left her with. Likewise, his nephew hardly cut a dash in a broadcloth shirt that didn’t fit, and breeches with an inexpertly sewn patch across one knee.

It shouldn’t have been this way. It was not, he told himself, fair. He’d been planning it for so long. Everything, down to the last detail; it was all supposed to be perfect. It all _would_ have been, should have been…. Cyrion knew he shouldn’t let those thoughts rule him, and he tried to break from them, craning his head back and staring up into the dappled green canopy of the vhenadahl. They were lost things now, pale maybes and feathered hopes, scattered on the wind.

There were no flowers, like the garlands of dried blossoms he’d bought for his daughter. No singing, no dancing. Valendrian’s speech—those well-worn words about the importance of tradition, and community, and the ties that bound them throughout life—stirred faint recollections in him, and he almost glanced to his side, as if he might somehow catch the ghost of Adaia standing there.

Mother Boann had come flanked by an extremely well-built Chanting Brother, and two young templars, their armour flashing in the early sunlight, and their gazes perpetually darting into every corner and doorway, as if they feared they were about to be mobbed.

When she mounted the platform, Cyrion caught a faint distaste in himself, a new resentment of the priest and all she stood for. He tried to quash it, to listen to her graceful, profound words, and to enjoy the verses the Brother—a melodious, agile tenor—sang, but he found it hard to focus, and difficult to stop the joy slipping beneath a dark weight of uncomfortable, terse displeasure.

He had never been particularly religious. Not as far as the chantry was concerned, with all its emphasis on attending services, paying dues, and living by rules that, ultimately, were of human invention. Oh, he believed well enough… just not so desperately that he needed to cling to the words of the Chant, or have the benediction of priests to convince him of life’s worth. And the templars… no. They were nothing but guards in different garb today, more muscle to stand between the human and the palpable distrust in the air.

It was a brief service. The sun slunk out from behind the clouds as Soris slipped the narrow gold band onto Valora’s finger, and pale, watery light suffused the cobbles, sluicing over them all like it was something fresh, some new beginning. She smiled that tremulous, delicate smile of hers, and he kissed her. They all applauded; Cyrion, the hahren, the priest and her pack, and the few other assembled faces. Taeodor was there, along with two of his brothers, newly returned to the alienage. The third was still out there somewhere, they said; allegedly last seen careening off down the West Road on a short, fat little horse he’d liberated from a dwarven merchant. If he was caught, he’d hang for it, but apparently he’d thought the promise of freedom worth the risk. Cyrion wondered at that. Was it freedom, to always be running, afraid to look over your shoulder? To be alone?

He pushed the thoughts aside, unwilling to dwell on them and determined to keep the smile on his face, and have it appear as genuine as he could make it. Eventually, the effort gave way to real pleasure, real pride, and the old tugs of affection and familial attachment swept through him, bearing him up on the tide of this day’s union, and the hope for a future that might yet be reclaimed. Even Shianni was smiling. She’d been leaning on his arm for part of the time, her bruised face and frail gait testament to everything that hung so undeniably over the day, but she’d coped well.

Afterwards, before the ragged, rather pathetic little procession began to make its way back to his house—his wedding gift, Cyrion had said, and the least he could do for the couple, despite how crowded things were going to be with four of them under the same roof—the priest caught his arm and drew him aside, compassionate enquiry lighting her soft blue eyes.

“You must be very proud,” she said, with a glance to where Soris was being warmly back-slapped by a gaggle of laughing young men. “I am… so glad that we were able to do this, at last.”

He gazed solemnly into the woman’s round, pleasant face. She was lacquered with make-up, her hair finely coiffed. Powder had settled into the subtle lines around her eyes, nose and mouth and, when she smiled earnestly at him, they crinkled like folds in fine lawn. Her prayers had not ignored the dead. In the midst of all these new beginnings, these hopes for a brighter future, she’d offered up words for Nelaros, and Nola… but she had not once mentioned his girl. It was, Cyrion mused, as if Merien was a canker to be cut from the community’s heart and cast away, scapegoat and pariah in one. For a moment, he burned with indignation on her behalf, before recalling that her disgrace was, at the end of it, his.

He inclined his head. “Indeed, Mother. Thank you.”

“Not at all. It’s my pleasure.” She was still looking at him, and her hand remained on his arm in a solicitous gesture that he found distinctly uncomfortable. “And how are _you_?”

Cyrion swallowed. He was old-fashioned, he knew, but at some level it bothered him for this woman to be standing here, touching him, as if she had the right to do so. Her differences—the fact she was slightly taller than him, well-fed, well-dressed, her figure firm and rounded—were starkly apparent, the floral scent she wore thick and cloying, and he wanted rid of her, even while being annoyed at his own ingratitude.

“Well enough, Mother,” he said, more brusquely than he meant to.

She patted his arm. “If you need to talk….”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

Another warm, kindly smile, and she drifted away. The templars were waiting for her, eager to escape the alienage, Cyrion assumed. He wondered whether they were truly nervous or just embarrassed, keen to put the filth behind them. They all left soon after, when the young men’s laughter grew more ribald, and Mother Boann’s face fixed itself into a polite rictus.

He was angered by that, he realised; angered by the way she nodded and smiled indulgently, as if theirs were quaint customs to be observed and later mocked, or dismissed as backward and crude. There _was_ crudity, of course, but… that wasn’t the point. Stupid thoughts, he told himself. He was becoming an irrational, irascible, foolish old man, spooked by shadows and goaded by nothings. He’d been worn too thin by these long, faceless days, that’s what it was. He needed to rest.

Just for a little while, perhaps.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

There should have been a great fuss over the procession back to the house. There should have been music, rowdy singing, and a jostle of people cat-calling and whistling. Instead, it was all rather sedate and subdued. Cyrion brought up the rear, Shianni on his arm, and fervently wished—not for the first time in recent days—that Adaia could have been here.

It was a woman’s role to make this part easier, and Valora shouldn’t have had to be completely on her own. He’d done what he could, of course, when they were planning this the first time around… and, Maker knew, that had been hard enough. Cyrion doubted he would ever forget the uncomfortable awkwardness of outlining a husband’s responsibility to Soris, and fielding the red-faced, stumble-tongued questions about how a man actually went about… _that_ … without causing pain or fear. Almost ironic, in the sickest, darkest possible sense, he supposed, given the way things had turned out.

Still, it jarred him into the recollection of the look on Merien’s face when he’d tried to be a good father and broach ‘that talk’ with her. Wide, startled brown eyes, mouth twisted in abject, strangled horror, and then he hadn’t been sure which one of them had been blushing and stammering the worst.

 _I… know what to expect, Father. It’ll be fine._

The women again, of course. The steel-eyed, iron-jawed leagues of complex and indefinable female alliance; always there, always smoothing things out and making sure the world ran on track, and that the front step had been scrubbed clean.

Sometimes, he suspected the women only _let_ the men think they were in charge. It probably suited some dark, nefarious purpose they had, some plan to be revealed when the world least expected it.

In any case, it was a time-honoured ritual, the procession. First, the bride and groom were accompanied to their door, and if they weren’t both blushing furiously and sweating like a pair of humans by the time they got there, the job hadn’t been done right. Soris and Valora certainly had the blushing down pat, so that was something in their favour.

After that, when the door closed and the wreath of honeyblossom—and usually the obligatory pair of someone’s underpants—had been hung upon it, it was allowable for those who didn’t wish to stand beneath the happy couple’s window singing all twenty-four verses of _Antivan Nights are Hotter_ until they got too drunk to continue (or were paid to go away) to retire to a safe, and sane, distance.

As he and Shianni headed for the quiet of the hahren’s parlour, Cyrion remembered being on the receiving end of that traditional rowdy humour. He and Adaia, leaning against the wooden door, both convulsed with laughter… more bonded by the ridiculousness of the experience than put off.

Maker’s breath, he remembered it so well. That first day… the first night. His father had gone through _that talk_ with him well in advance, drummed into him the importance of being gentle, kind, respectful; of course, he’d done his best. It was clumsy and embarrassing, but wonderful, in a strange and awkward way. _She_ was wonderful. It brought them close in more than the obvious sense, gave them a fragile, breathless intimacy that didn’t seem as if it could possibly ever have been felt by anyone else before them.

Naturally, it wasn’t love, though it paved the way for it. That came later: a frail, tenuous thing that unfolded slowly, like the silken petals of some delicate flower. Over time, it grew stronger. Life bound them together with a thousand threads, light as air and strong as steel, and by the time the baby came, Cyrion had hardly remembered a time she hadn’t been there, part of every breath he took.

He’d still felt the same when she died… he still felt it now. Felt her presence, somehow, the echoes of her still cleaving to the life she’d left behind. _Their_ life. Their place… their family.

He guided his niece into the low, dim room, and Shianni must have spotted the wistful nostalgia wreathing his face. She laughed.

“Why, Uncle… I think you’re going soft!”

He smiled, glad she was able to make a joke, but unwilling to share the memory. Seemed like those were all he had left, now. Memories and dreams. After all, no joy on this day could erode what lingered over it. No snatched moment of levity or pleasant recollection stopped him from looking for faces in the crowd that he knew he would not find.

They would be on the Imperial Highway by now, he suspected. His little girl, and the man whom he could not help but feel had bought her.

It was in the face of that thought that Cyrion allowed himself his dreams. They were sanity, in a way. Picking up the threads of a broken, unravelled life, and sewing them back together the way they should have been. He should let them go, he knew. Let _her_ go… but he couldn’t.

He sat in the smooth-worn wooden chair he’d occupied on that first night, with Shianni opposite him, and they played endless rounds of Nine Men’s Morris on the makeshift board scratched into the windowsill. It passed the time. Over the years, countless others had sat and played, he supposed, leavening dark nights or wiling away long waits. When Shianni won, she giggled like a little girl… the little girl he could still see through the bruises and the tired, sore eyes.

She was going to be a bigger problem to him than Merien ever had, and that was saying something. Oh, he loved her, but it didn’t mean Cyrion was blind to his daughter’s faults. She hadn’t been the easiest girl in the world to find a match for, not by a long chalk. She was a good worker, of course. Cooked well enough, kept a clean house, and Maker knew she was bright, resourceful, resilient… and too damn independent by far. Stubborn, too, like her mother, and cunning with it. Never one for an outright fight when she thought she could get away with manipulation—even if the results weren’t as elegant as she believed they were. She wasn’t all that subtle. And she had a temper. Oh, it was slow to rouse, but it blazed when it got going, and then it would burn itself out fast, and leave behind ashes and guilt.

She’d been too good at that, he’d always thought, for one so young. He supposed it was losing her mother early that did it; too ready to take blame into herself and stew on it, until it curdled into another burst of anger and frustration. She fought against it, though. Always wanting to be the good daughter she feared she wasn’t, and trying to be the girl she believed he wanted her to be. In time, Cyrion had always hoped she’d learn not to be so hard on herself, and maybe to listen to other people more instead of trying to second-guess what she thought they wanted from her. He could have helped, he supposed. He should have told her— ah, but what? That he would always love her, no matter what she did, that he was proud of her, and that she didn’t need to try so damned hard? Perhaps.

Perhaps he hadn’t even known all those things himself until it was too late.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

They left it until well into the night before they walked back. The young couple would have more time alone than they knew what to do with, and Cyrion hoped they’d enjoyed it. As he recalled, it was the last opportunity they could expect to be uninterrupted for a while. Life had a way of bearing in on one, honey-month or no.

It had rained again. Shianni held his arm, and he let her think it was so _she_ could stop _him_ from falling.

“The stars are bright,” she observed, peering up at the patterned blackness above.

The towers and parapets that criss-crossed their sky—the parts of the old city that abutted and overlooked the alienage, and were rendered less valuable by so doing—were less obvious at night. They were shadows within shadows, different shapes against the darkness and, between them, chinks of blank sky were peppered with clear, hard specks of light.

There were a hundred stories about stars. What they were, how they came to be… tales and poems strewn with the names of ancient lovers whose hearts glittered up there in eternal stillness, preserved for all time as testament to their affairs, and their tragedies. Perhaps no great love ever ended happily. Cyrion mused on that thought, but not for long.

Rats scampered in the dark, and they had to pick their way both past the slops and rubbish spilling from the open gutters, and around the huddles of furry bodies. Alienage rats grew strangely fat and fearless on the lean pickings here, and black eyes glared from the darkness, thin yellow teeth bared at those who dared to disturb a meal.

“Ugh.” Shianni shuddered and pressed closer to him, and Cyrion relished the brief moment in which he could squeeze her shoulders, be her protector.

Taeodor and his brothers had brought Soris’ things round, not that there was much. A box of odds and ends, a few clothes, and a rag rug his mother had made a couple of winters before she died.

It wasn’t a lot, but there wasn’t all that much room in the house. They’d find another pallet, of course, budge up a little tighter and make that extra bit of space. Cyrion had been insistent. The least he could do, he’d said, and Maker knew it felt as if he’d been skating by on the very least of everything this past week.

“We’re back,” Shianni called out, the false sing-song of a strangled alert as her fingers closed on the door handle.

Cyrion almost wanted to chuckle, as if the past twenty years were nothing but a whisper, and he was once more a young man, caught on the twin prongs of excitement and terror that had marked his wedding night. He could hear Adaia’s helpless laughter as he blushed furiously at the raucous crowd below the window, and recall every burn of the shocked admiration that had swallowed him when she leaned out and threatened to empty the pisspot over them if they didn’t, as she’d put it, bugger off.

Valora met them at the door, rose-cheeked and softly smiling, Cyrion was pleased to see, though he doubted the house could have had a much more different mistress. She promised tea and soup if they wanted it, and ushered them in, as if she was eager to shut out the night.

Inside, everything seemed very quiet. The fire crackled low, lending that familiar room a diaphanous, shifting warmth that, to Cyrion, seemed at once both tempting and deceitful. Years of memories tugged at him, and he wanted to fall into them with the eagerness of youth, to relive every comfortable, cosy moment he’d spent in this place. Yet it had changed… _was_ changing. Different, now. Still a home—still _his_ home—but bending around a new family, and he supposed this awkward transition would have to be endured; a time of no one quite knowing what to be, or how to feel.

Shianni closed the door behind them, and the quiet clunk of the latch made him blink, rousing resentful proddings at the back of his mind. It was supposed to be a joyful day. He was supposed to be proud, pleased… could he not even do that anymore?

“Uncle.”

Soris was sitting by the fire, stripped down to shirtsleeves and a slight glow of triumphant relief. Cyrion joined him, aware that he had a certain role to fulfil here, but keeping one eye on the girls. It wasn’t fair on Valora, he thought, though naturally it was always hard for girls who came from other alienages. They had no sisters, no mothers, no friends already among the womenfolk, and no one they could… discuss things with, or whatever it was that women did which so clearly went above simple talking.

Still, she was a good girl. She’d make friends soon enough, if the drama of her arrival—and her husband’s role in everything that had followed—wasn’t held against her too much. And she would be good for Shianni, he supposed, not that things were meant to work that way. In… other circumstances, Shianni would have become the surrogate sister, the confidante to everything she needed to talk about—and he assumed there would be things—but that would hardly be the case now. Just something else for Valora to shoulder, along with the hard graft of forging a life here. He hoped she wouldn’t resent it… or them.

Cyrion cleared his throat, satisfied that the whispered hum of feminine conversation over by the clean-scrubbed table was as it should be, and need not concern him. He glanced at Soris, aware of the uncomfortable tinge of embarrassment that hung between them.

“Um. All… all right?”

Soris’ cheeks coloured a little, which could easily have been down to the firelight.

“Mm-hm.” He nodded. “It’s, uh, fine, Uncle.”

“Good. You don’t need—?”

“No,” Soris said quickly. “Uh. No, no…. We’re… uh… ahem. It’s fine.”

“Good.”

And thank the Maker for that. Cyrion relaxed a little, settling back into the chair. Things were as they should be, then. So why did it all still feel so empty?

He knew why, of course. Knew it with every calm, soothing minute that slipped idly past. It was an evening like any other—and like every other would be from now on, he supposed.

Shianni spread the rag rug out in front of the fire, far back enough from the hearth to avoid sparks, and declared it looked good. They all agreed. Valora poured tea. They all drank it. She did a little of her tidy, concise needlework, head bent over the cloth, and the silence was thick and rich as incense.

It was almost as he’d imagined it, Cyrion supposed, and that made Fate an even crueller bitch than he’d thought possible.

He’d pictured it, just the way he pictured it now, holding every detail close enough that he could almost taste it, squeezing himself against the raw, jagged edges of the dream. All those months, writing to Highever and waiting for letters back, scraping up coin to pay the matchmaker and praying that everything they’d heard about the boy was true…. There were stories about corrupt brokers, although naturally everyone expected a slight degree of exaggeration. The theory was that the flush of youth should take the edge off any little imperfections, and it usually did.

Still, he’d wanted to hold out for the right one. Merien deserved that. She’d deserved a future. It wouldn’t have been perfect, but it should have been there. For her, and for Nelaros.

Those first few, blushing glances he’d seen pass between them—pale shadows of the looks that passed now between Soris and Valora—should have been given the time and space to grow into a bond of more than shared nerves and hope. It was awkward at first, of course it was, and no one expected anything different, but time mended that.

She should have been allowed the chance. It was… necessary. A part of the cycle. There should have been life and chaos in the house again. Children, if the young couple were blessed. Cyrion had hoped for it—dared to hope that she would carry better than her mother, if not just for the gift of life, than to spare her the pain of losing it. He and Adaia would dearly have loved more children, but it apparently hadn’t been meant to be. After she lost the third baby, they started to take precautions. He’d wanted it, though. Wanted a house filled with little ones, and family gatherings where there were never enough chairs to go around, and their laughter burned long into the night, brighter than any candles.

There should have been grandchildren. Adaia had talked about that, back when they were still young enough for the notion to be absurd. She’d laughed, her head thrown back, her neck still a creamy expanse of firm skin, her hair spilling down between her shoulder blades, the dark chestnut barely touched with grey. He’d smiled at the thought, laughed with her, but it hadn’t seemed all that strange to him. It was the way things should be, after all. The wheel turned, the cycle moved on. There should have been little ones again, with bright eyes and round cheeks, and his daughter would have been a wonderful mother.

It could still come, he supposed. Different, though no less of a blessing. But it wouldn’t be the same.

Cyrion looked around the room, watching the flicker of flamelight on the whitewashed walls. He could almost see them, if he tried hard enough. Nelaros, sitting where he should be in front of the fire, and Merien, fetching tea and doing her darning by candlelight, as the little shadows who had no names played at her feet.


	4. Bitter Truths

Cyrion was in the marketplace when he heard the first of the news. There was still ill-feeling—you had to be careful to keep quiet and stick to the margins, not attracting anyone’s attention—though so far the alienage had remained untouched. The guard had been doubled, and Valendrian had warned them to take no risks, raise no hackles… everyone knew the shems were just waiting for an excuse.

It was a pleasant enough day, though the city’s general miasma of dust and busy crowds took the edge of the sky’s sharp blue. Tradesmen’s flags flapped in the square, the covered stalls blazoned with bright colours, and the smells of half a dozen different food hawkers’ wares mixing with the distinctive odour of ox dung.

Shianni’s healing was progressing well, and she and Valora were taking in needlework and linens, earning sorely needed coppers… which almost made up for the trouble Soris was having with work. Seemed like, with Merien gone, people were of the opinion he should have either hanged or caught the draft too. Not two nights ago, he’d come home with a black eye and a split lip, and Cyrion had been able to get no names or details out of the boy.

Still, it didn’t matter. They would get by. They always did. He’d bought bread and potatoes, and they would eat, and sit before the fire as they did every evening, and he would not think of his daughter, so far from home and surrounded by strangers.

There was something different, though. Some dark crackle of dissent in the air. Gossip was running rife in the city, and Cyrion stopped in the lee of one of the stores that fronted the stalls, and pretended he wasn’t listening.

The men were large, bleary of eye and fat of face, the smell of ale and tavern floors ingrained in their clothing. They spoke in hushed tones, but he caught enough to understand the importance of the words.

“What? I don’t believe _that_.”

“It’s true. My wife’s brother’s been in the King’s Fifth for years. She had a letter from him last week, saying how they was all holed up on the edge of the Korcari Wilds.”

“Well, did he _say_ it was…?” the second chimed, and Cyrion wondered what it should be that he was so unwilling to voice.

“Nah. Not as such, anyway. Said they weren’t allowed to talk about details, nor put ’em in letters home. S’got to be somethin’ ’orrible, we knew that, but—”

“Darkspawn, though.” The second man shook his head. “It don’t seem real.”

“They _say_ they’re pushin’ ’em back. That it’ll be over any day soon. S’what Finnal’s letter said, anyway. They’ve got mages and Maker knows what else down there. Grey Wardens, too.”

Cyrion almost dropped his bag, fingers clutching earnestly into the hemp.

“Are there even any of them left? I thought—”

“Nah, King Maric—Maker rest his soul—he let ’em back in, din’t ’e? They’ll sort ’em out. S’posed to be wossname, aren’t they? Warriors of great legend.”

The second man grunted. “Hm. Sound like a shifty load of buggers to me. Anyway, why’d they need a whole army down there? That’s what bothers me. I didn’t think darkspawn were s’posed to break above ground, except in a Blight. ’Ere, you don’t think…?”

“What?” The first human snorted. “Oh, come off it. Don’t talk rubbish, Geraint.”

“Well, it could be, couldn’t it?”

“Nah… s’probably not— well, it _wouldn’t_ be.”

But the damage had already been done, the thought set free and the possibilities beating against the sky with wide, black wings.

Cyrion was no longer guarding his posture, keeping himself set back against the wall. His mind filled with the imagined carnage of war, the heat of blood and battle… and the small figure at the centre of it who he knew could not possibly stand against such odds. She wasn’t a soldier. She was a child. She was too young, too inexperienced, and not ready for the chaos and terror into which she would be flung. He’d thought somehow it would be service, that these Grey Wardens would have her bound to brewing tea and shining boots, and all the other liberties men heavy with the tension of arms might take with a barracks wench—and Maker knew that was bad enough—but _this_ ….

He should have minded himself, he supposed. Yet he flinched when the first human glared at him, fat mouth crinkled in offended displeasure.

“What you lookin’ at, knife-ears?” the man demanded, stepping around his companion to loom threateningly at this insolent interloper.

Cyrion dropped his gaze to the ground and let his shoulders slump forwards, hands hanging loosely at his sides, the hemp bag dangling from his fingers.

“Forgive me, ser. Nothing. I merely—”

“Bloody elves!”

He knew the blow was coming, but he didn’t flinch. It was a slack, half-effort of a slap, back-handed and careless. Cyrion rolled with it, took care to make it seem as if the human had more strength in him than he really did. Pain bloomed through his cheek as the man’s knuckles jarred the bone, and his head snapped to the side, his eyes shut against the sudden, nauseating flashes of blue and purple that spotted his vision.

“Spying, were you?” barked the second human. “Or jus’ waitin’ for the opportunity to stick a blade in our ribs?”

Cyrion swayed, catching his balance before his knees bobbed beneath him.

“N-No, ser. I was—”

Stupid. He should have stayed quiet, or run when he had the chance. The second blow—a proper punch this time—caught him in the side of the head and sent him sprawling. The bag fell from his grasp, bread scudding into the dust and potatoes rolling across the ground.

Cyrion folded up on the cobbles. Best thing to do. Let them have their fun. A boot connected with his jaw. He spat, his mouth full of bloody saliva, and thin streaks of it dribbled down his lips and chin. As the darkness closed over him, his heart thudding and his head ringing, he was dimly aware of how ironic it would be to die like this… almost exactly the same way as Adaia.

“All right, boys, enough! Break it up.”

He stayed down, though the blows stopped coming. Another foot met his ribs—a last parting shot, he thought—but then there was gruff muttering, and the sounds of the two men being shoved away by a third.

A large hand grabbed hold of the back of Cyrion’s jerkin, and unceremoniously dragged him to his feet. The man was tall, well-built and clean-shaven, with a weary expression in his blue eyes. His leather armour marked him out as a guardsman, but he wore no helmet, and Cyrion couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t yet drawn his sword. The man looked him over briskly, apparently satisfied there was no lasting damage, and shook his head.

“Honestly. Sometimes I think you lot are your own worst enemies. Not hurt? Good. I suggest you get yourself back to the alienage, old man. I’ve trouble enough to deal with without this.”

He bowed his head, mumbled a thankful apology, and was aware of a second guardsman drawing up beside the first.

“Sergeant Kylon, ser… Bodric says to come right away, ser. Fight in the Gnawed Noble, sarge—there’s teeth all over the place, and someone said Lord Elren’s youngest son’s been stabbed.”

“Oh, Maker’s _cock_ … all right, I’m coming.” The sergeant sighed wearily, and shot Cyrion a brief glance. “You still here? Go on… I’d move along if I were you.”

He nodded shakily. They strode off in a jangle of harness and roughshod footfalls, leaving Cyrion to kneel, dizzy and light-headed, and try to gather the food he’d bought. Someone laughed and kicked a potato away from his grasp, just before his fingers closed on it.

He let it go and, straightening up, began the slow, unsteady walk home to a house that smelled of laundry soap and dirty water.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

If the awkward, unpleasant tautness in the city had been difficult, it was nothing compared to what followed.

A little after a week later, news started to filter into Denerim. It came on swift hooves, via mud-speckled guild messengers and breathless, wild-eyed travellers who scarcely seemed to believe it themselves, but the rumours took hold firm and fast.

The king was dead, the army routed at Ostagar… all was devastation and disaster.

Once the news broke, it seemed to crack the city in two. People wept in the streets, an air of aching loss and violent grief slowing the foot traffic, and grinding the whole pace of life to a standstill. He’d been so young, that seemed to be the crux of it. Not yet thirty, and so much the mirror of his father at that age…. Those who were old enough to remember the rebellion, River Dane and Maric the Saviour looked at Cailan though squinted eyes, and glossed him with the remnants of legends. To the rest, he’d been a Theirin, and a Fereldan, and that was good enough. He’d also, by all accounts, been popular with his men, and that counted for a lot. A ready smile, a ready wit… the people liked that in a king.

The mood that seized the city was one of betrayal, of angry hurt and sharp, reflexive violence. As if things in the alienage had not been bad enough already, it lapped up against the walls in furious waves, and Valendrian gave the word that no one was to pass the inner gates, unless it was absolutely necessary.

Outside, one word seared the streets, like a black-tongued flame that ripped from mouth to mouth.

 _Darkspawn_.

The tale changed with every telling. First, it was an ambush—a burst of fury flying out of those barbaric wildlands—and then a full horde, an army, raised by devilry and set against Good King Cailan’s brave men by some impossible, horrific power. A new Blight, people began to whisper. The stuff of legends, the stories used to frighten children… could it be true? Was it even possible? Surely the foul creatures had been beaten back for the last time long ago. Such things didn’t happen anymore, not in this new, united Ferelden. This was a modern age, with no time for myths and superstition.

Rumour had it the queen was beside herself with grief—or that she was calling a Landsmeet to assess the danger from the south. One of the two.

For Cyrion, every new whisper fomented fresh agony. The alienage’s self-imposed isolation was hot-housing a violent pressure of resentment and anger. Food had become scarce, as virtually no one was working. The whole district seemed to exist under a greasy cloud of tension, and every day it hung heavier, darker, until it felt as if something must happen… some explosive, brutal conclusion.

He no longer cared.

He should, he knew. He had other responsibilities, other concerns… yet his mind was fixed only on her. His little girl, dying in a place so far from home, surrounded by strangers and monsters; thrown into a life for which she was not fitted. A fate from which he had failed to protect her.

He’d tried to avoid thinking of it, ever since she left. Oh, he knew what everyone was saying. The talk of the Grey Wardens—if that’s what the human had truly been—and their role in what had happened did nothing to lend her memory the sheen of respect. Within these walls she’d always be the Tabris girl, who left in shame and ruin, and on whom her people could blame everything. If the order was truly responsible for the defeat in the south… well, that only proved the point, didn’t it?

That night, they sat before the fire—same as every evening, every damn day a repetitive, shapeless thing, drifting past Cyrion as if he had no control over even these few threads of a life that were left to him—and the room was draped in wet laundry. The warm, muggy damp of it made the air hang thick on his skin, and his fingers were curled, knuckles standing proud of his hands like jagged, snow-capped peaks.

“P-perhaps it’s not as bad as it sounds,” Valora suggested timidly, peering up from her needlework. “Perhaps—”

“The king is dead,” Soris said bluntly, from his slumped position closest to the fire, shoulders bowed and hands dangling loosely between his knees. “Everyone’s dead. A whole army, gone. They wouldn’t be saying it if it wasn’t true.”

Her mouth thinned, those big doe-eyes darting nervously to her husband, and then back down to the darning. Everyone was aware Soris had not left the house today. The smell of wet laundry was on his rumpled clothes—same ones as yesterday—and he had done little but sit in that chair and stare at the hearth. His lip was marked by a thick, black-edged cut, though the bruising on his face had worn down to a tight, shiny bloom, and the wound he had taken to his arm on _that day_ had healed well enough to be less noticeable.

If only, Cyrion thought, all hurts were so easily mended.

Shianni sighed. “Poor Meri.”

There was a collective moment of held breath, as if no one could actually believe she’d really said it. The sound of the name reached into Cyrion’s chest like a knife, and twisted there, gouging at the places that should still have been flesh and blood. He’d thought he’d been beyond hurting, but it wasn’t so.

Soris frowned at his sister. “They’re _saying_ it was the Wardens’ fault.”

“Oh, as if anyone believes that!” she retorted and, just for a few seconds, they were almost children again, arguing and teasing in braids and short trousers.

“Just because our cousin, the all-conquering hero, is with them doesn’t mean—”

“Don’t you talk about her like that!” Shianni snapped. “Not in that tone. You watch your damn mouth!”

“—they could still be traitors!” Soris countered, raising his voice over hers, more tired strain than real shouting.

He was like his father, Cyrion thought, remembering with a grimace the way Merenir had turned to the comforts of drink. He did not relish the prospect of doing everything for his nephew that he’d done for his brother… though he _would_ do it, he knew, if it was needed.

Valora set her sewing aside and cleared her throat. “Um… would anyone like tea? I-I could brew some more. I think the pot’s still warm.”

The hard, dark tension in the room slumped to mere discomfort, and Soris flopped back against the wooden chair, glaring at his sister.

“I don’t want any tea,” he muttered.

She met his gaze, chin tilted up, her tone sweet and crisp. “I’d love one, Valora. Thank you.”

Cyrion nodded, mumbled his agreement, and Valora set to brewing and pouring three cups. Soris scoffed, folded his arms, and glowered into the fire, which popped and crackled quietly to itself.

This was his mess to resolve. He knew that. It was his role as elder here, as head of this house. He should take them both in hand, ensure they made peace and that—most of all—they did not break beneath this. They had to endure it, as they had to all things.

And yet, he stayed silent. He sat, waiting in this grim, prickly quiet as Valora made tea, and he thought of his girl, and the day she had left, and the ache of watching her walk away.

Cyrion hadn’t seen much of the Grey Warden on that day. Just a figure: dark skin and bright plate, a white surcoat and black hair. Oppositions and contrasts, somewhere in the blur of things after the women had been taken, and uproar broke out in the square.

He frowned, and looked at his nephew. Soris seemed to feel his gaze, for he raised his head, pale brows lifted in enquiry.

Valora pressed a warm stoneware cup into his hands, and Cyrion felt a little guilty for the smile he gave her, brief as an afterthought. She wafted away again, curling quietly into her chair, needlework once more in hand.

“What was he like?” Cyrion heard himself say, unsure exactly where the question came from. “The… the human?”

“The Grey Warden?” Soris shrugged. “What are they supposed to be like? He was… just a shem. Armoured. With weapons… a _lot_ of weapons.”

Cyrion nodded slowly. He hadn’t expected much different. Outside of stories, who knew what the order was. Giants bristling with armaments, or shrivelled old priests dwindled to rags and bones while they sifted through the ancient remnants of their relevance. Maybe both, maybe neither. There had been no griffons, and no darkspawn, for centuries. Whatever fallacies of fallen glory the Grey Wardens wanted to chase, Cyrion would have assumed they could draw a better calibre for their ranks than trawling beneath the gallows, dragging the condemned and the desperate to them as last resorts.

Soris shifted uncomfortably, like a child forced to admit an untruth.

“He was very respectful,” he said reluctantly. “I didn’t expect that. He… actually bowed to us. I guess he… seemed all right.”

Shianni let out a short, rather shrill laugh, and Valora looked up from her sewing, eyes wide and lips softly parted.

Soris shrugged again, evidently aware of the attention, and not appreciating it. “Don’t look at me like that. Anyway, the hahren’s the one to ask about him.”

“What?”

He looked at Cyrion with unusually acerbic disbelief. “You didn’t know, Uncle? They’re old friends, Valendrian and the Warden. We heard it from the hahren himself. Known each other for twenty years.”

Cyrion stared. That… couldn’t be true. Valendrian would have said something, surely. Some word or explanation. _Twenty years._ No. Surely not. He would have—

“Uncle?”

He blinked, and realised how far out of himself he had travelled, how steep the silence had been, and how little he had done to fill it. Shianni was watching him, her head tipped to the side in something that might have been a genuine gesture of enquiry, or might just have been her trying to see out of her bad eye.

It was starting to clear now the swelling had gone down, but the white of it was still a bright pool of red, and he couldn’t look at it without feeling his own eyes start to water.

He shook his head. “I… was unaware of that.”

Soris let out another scoff, a soft, bitter breath of mirthless laughter, and turned his face to the fire.

“Weren’t we all, Uncle? Weren’t we all?”

A spark leapt from the flames, and burned itself out on the stone hearth. The smell of tallow candles painted the air with grease, and Cyrion stared down at the rag rug on the floor between them, the one spot of colour and warmth in the room.

 **_~o~O~o~_ **

He waited until the following evening to visit Valendrian, thinking somehow that the anger he was almost too numb to feel might have abated, instead of hardening into an unyielding, thickened thing, like a callus across his heart.

The hahren was standing in the middle of his parlour when Cyrion arrived, almost as if he’d been expecting him. A fire burned low in the hearth, and the warm glow of candles lit the long, low room. Towards the back of the house, Nera was kneading bread, and the thud of dough made for a comforting, familiar rhythm.

“My friend.” Valendrian inclined his head.

Cyrion couldn’t contain the cynical twist of his mouth.

“You knew,” he said flatly.

If the hahren understood his meaning, he didn’t show it. His expression barely altered at all.

“Did I? Let us sit, and you can tell me what—”

“I did not come for platitudes!” Cyrion snapped. “This… Grey Warden. You _knew_. You knew what they would be facing, what was happening in the south. You called the human ‘friend’.”

“Ah.”

Valendrian gestured to one of the wooden chairs, and folded slowly into its twin. He was older of the two, yet he moved with less pain, less stiffness… just one more mark of life’s unfairness, Cyrion decided. He shook his head, pride and anger keeping him on his feet, impolite as it was.

“Yes.” The hahren sighed wearily. “If it pleases you to hear it. Duncan wrote to me a little more than a month ago, expressing his concerns over the sightings of darkspawn in the south. I don’t know whether he was aware of how rapidly things would— well, I don’t imagine anyone could have foreseen what we hear of happening. I… am sorry, you know.”

Cyrion winced. ‘Sorry’ hardly helped.

Valendrian gestured again to the other chair. “Please… sit.”

From the back of the house, the repetitive thud of bread dough to board thumped like a heartbeat. Cyrion drew himself up, standing as tall as his joints allowed.

“You knew he would be recruiting. This… friend of yours. What order of warriors recruits from an alienage?”

“An order that does not judge by prejudice,” Valendrian replied, meeting his gaze steadily. “Duncan is— _was_ —a good man. He will have treated her kindly, and with respect.”

His words knocked against Cyrion with all the force of a half-curled blow, and the marks they left were no less livid for being invisible. He sat, humbled by necessity and the weakness in his legs. The edge of the hard wooden seat knocked against the backs of his knees as he folded down, and the breath seemed to leach from him like water from a split skin.

“But why… why _her_?”

He could hear the plaintive note in his voice: an old man’s child-like whine. He hated it, but it was as impossible to curb as the breeze. It choked him, choked him with the vehemence of all the tears and rage and humiliation—none of which would bring her back.

Valendrian tapped his fingers thoughtfully against the arm of the chair.

“Would you rather they’d let her hang?”

“Of course not! But—”

“I did what I could, my friend. That much I swear. And we were fortunate, in a way; Duncan intended to be in Denerim earlier than he in fact arrived. Business called him to Redcliffe, and to the Circle of Magi, and—”

“And you did everything you could to push the wedding ceremony forwards,” Cyrion supplemented, understanding sluicing through him like a sunrise.

He felt small, and guilty, and stupid. Why had he not seen any of this? Why had he not understood? Why, above all things, had he not even _asked_?

“I did.” Valendrian nodded. “I hoped, if he could see her settled, it might be enough, Blight or no Blight. As it was….”

Cyrion winced, unwilling to let the memories of that day creep up on him afresh. His fingers flexed uselessly against the edge of the chair. He still wanted to hit something… _someone_ ; still wanted to let all the rage and pain course out, let it flow until he was a dried, empty husk, unable to feel or think anymore.

“What they’re saying,” he murmured, and the words spun like cinders in the air, settling between the two men but not dying. “This talk of treachery—”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t believe it,” the hahren said flatly. “The Grey Wardens have one interest and one interest only: the darkspawn. They stand apart from the politics of nations. To betray King Cailan would bring them no gain.”

“Then you think it was chaos, not design?”

Cyrion watched the other elf’s face carefully, but if there was any flicker of change in Valendrian’s expression, the shadows hid it from him.

“That is one explanation, yes.”

Cyrion sighed and leaned back against the chair. Occasionally, he’d used to think how frustrating it must be for Valendrian—a man of keen intelligence and ability—to be stuck here among their kind. Had he been born human, he might have gone anywhere, done anything… even if he’d been cursed with magic, he’d have had the education that mages received. Few others who ever left the alienages could claim that, when all that awaited even the elves who made a success of life beyond the walls was an existence reliant on brigandry or servitude in some other form. You saw them, from time to time, in the taverns: travellers arrogant in their comparative finery, with fingers too quick to move to their weapons, their stars always hitched to some thug, smuggler or crime lord.

Looking at him now, it was possible to think Valendrian could have followed such a path. His face had acquired that closed-in, mask-like quality he employed when dealing with the garrison, and Cyrion did not care to be on the receiving end of it. Yet neither did he wish to argue further. Whatever else he was, the hahren was their elder. Their leader, their pillar of strength. His word was, Cyrion supposed, what law would be if there was actually any sense of justice in the world.

He closed his eyes, tension drawing a deep furrow across his forehead. At the rear of the house, Nera had set the bread to prove, and slipped quietly from the back door, leaving the parlour empty and silent, a hollow cocoon of a place where nothing stood between Cyrion and his grief.

“I am sorry,” Valendrian repeated, his voice low and calm. “Your daughter was a fine girl.”

“We don’t know she’s dead,” Cyrion blurted, squeezing his eyes ever tighter shut. “She could have… she _could_ ….”

“We’ll see about a service for her,” Valendrian said quietly. “Perhaps. Once things are—”

“Yes.” The word slipped from him, a resigned murmur.

It would have been so different, had she been there. He knew it. She would have incited a riot in the street, risen up in her magnificent anger and struck them all down. It would have been a disaster, but a completely different _kind_ of disaster. His wild Marcher rascal, with her knives and her bright, black eyes, and that way she had of curving her mouth, teeth bared, like a challenge to the whole damn world.

A merchant’s servant, the matchmaker had said, all those years ago. When Adaia confessed the rest—yes, the merchant _had_ been rich, but also dishonest, and yes, she had been his servant, but also his mistress, his bodyguard, his watchdog—Cyrion had already been too in love with her to care. He’d kept her secrets, her shame and her dishonour, and he kept them still. Maker knew he had little enough left of her.

At least, with Merien’s body abandoned on the battlefield at Ostagar, he would not have to face carrying her to the paupers’ field, the way they’d had to do for her mother.

He glanced up, aware of Valendrian’s gaze on him. There was compassion in the hahren’s face; no empty gesture, either, but the true sympathy of one who had shared this loss. His son, dead from fever twelve years ago, his wife lost to a wasting sickness three years later. Was there a reason they should all suffer so? If there was, Cyrion couldn’t fathom it. He inclined his head, and accepted the hand Valendrian placed on his arm.

“The… the Grey Warden,” he said softly, searching the hahren’s face for the glimmer of a reaction. “How did you know him?”

Valendrian pulled back then, though the movement was calm and controlled, like everything he did… as if he was neither surprised nor shamed by the question.

“I think,” he said, after a moment, “you already have an idea.”

Cyrion’s jaw tightened. “Twenty years,” he murmured. “It… was a long time ago.”

Another world, maybe. Another wedding, and the threshold of something bright and wonderful.

“Yes.” Valendrian smiled mirthlessly. “You’re right. Duncan was a younger man then, in Denerim with his mentor. Maric had just rescinded the decree that banned their order from these shores, and they were desperate to swell their numbers. They wanted Adaia.”

A tired kind of regret washed over Cyrion, and he nodded slowly. So much that made sense, and so many things he could have understood, if only he’d bothered to _look_. She smiled at him from the recesses of distant memory, with their baby daughter on her hip and her hair spilling down her back and, Maker guide him, he felt so very old.

“I see.”

“The offer was never made,” Valendrian said quietly. “They came to me. Duncan and I spoke at great length, and I asked him to consider you, and the family that she would have here. You were both so young… so well-matched.” A small, grim smile curled the edge of his wide mouth. “I thought I was saving her.”

Cyrion winced. “Did she know?”

“No.” Valendrian shook his head. “Duncan always asked after Adaia in his letters. I suppose there may have been a hope that, one day, she would want to join them… but I never told her.”

“Why not?”

The hahren shrugged. “I was worried she might just do it.”

After a beat of silence, Cyrion lifted his head and looked the elder full in the face. Slowly, a smile spread across his lips: an awkward, stiff thing at first, as if he’d forgotten how. Valendrian echoed the expression, and then they were laughing—actually laughing—and it tumbled from Cyrion as a wild, desperate catharsis.

It stopped just as suddenly, and he was heaving for breath, eyes damp and chest sore. She would have. Oh, yes. Like a shot, instead of with all that reticence and fear of Merien’s. The smile died on Cyrion’s face as he recalled the way his little girl had clung to him for the last time, the moment they’d said their final farewell.

 _You were brave, weren’t you?_

Her face, already blooming with bruises, and the glassy terror in her eyes… things he wanted to forget, but couldn’t bear to let go. He’d wanted to protect her from so much—had _tried_ to keep her safe, her whole life—and yet, in his failure, she had shown just how much stronger she was than he’d ever allowed himself to believe.

The truth was a bitter thing, Cyrion supposed, but he couldn’t begrudge it. If she truly was gone, then he must remember her as the woman she had been. Not just his little girl, but someone who’d lent her aid without being asked, who had given everything to defend those she loved, and accepted the price for it, even when Fate had towed her in a different direction.

He would remember that. He would remember _her_.

Eventually, he bade Valendrian goodnight. There was more to discuss, of course: a funeral to plan, of sorts, and the question hanging over them all of what would happen now that Arl Urien was gone. Their king and their arl, both dead. The alienage would mourn, Cyrion imagined, only once they were sure of who their new lord would be. No sense spilling tears in grief when they might need them for hardship.

After all, tomorrow was always another day.


End file.
